Little Spain?
by Black-Cat-In-Boots
Summary: England finally manages to do a spell right! Too bad it wasn't the right one... And now poor Spain is stuck as a toddler for a few days! When Spain shows up to the world meeting the next day as a toddler, who else beside Romano would take care of him? Fluff and Spamano! ( Antonio/Lovino) and implied UsUk and GerIta
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello! I hope you have fun reading this, it's just going to be a little story I'll write for the heck of it. I always love ones like this! Sorry if it isn't very original :P **

**This is just the introduction, so it's short. Sorry. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia **

It would be a lie to say that the sight of the blonde, British man with unusually thick eyebrows being drunk off his ass at the local bar was unusual.

In fact, the bartenders would be surprised if they didn't see the short man hobble in on a Saturday, a scowl on his face as he sat down and ordered an Irish Car Bomb (he always muttered something about his brother getting him hooked on them).

No, it was not an unusual sight at all. What was unusual about this particular Saturday night at the local bar was that this strange, small, and thick browed British man had an acquaintance. He had thick, loose brown curls, bright green eyes and a rather exotic air to him. The opening conversation between the two went something like this.

British Man: "Oh bloody hell. _You're_ here? It was bad enough seeing you at the conference!"

Exotic Looking Man: "Haha! Well I heard that you went here a lot and wanted to bothe- Um, visit you!"

British Man: "Ugh! Just leave, you damn Spaniard!"

Apparent Spaniard: "Aw, don't pretend you don't love seeing me, eyebrows!"

Now, the rest of this greeting was some half slurred curses and laughs. And this was heard by pretty much the while bar because both men were shouting and it was only after the loud profanities were shouted did the bartender tell them to shut the hell up or get out.

By the end of the night the two were drunk. Very drunk. Now let's just use their names now, because I think we both know who they really are.

England groaned as he pressed his forehead against the wood of the bar. "I'm never drinkin' again," he slurred out, his grasp on his rum not loosening. The bartender shook his head knowingly and tutted. He would be back again next saturday. He said the same thing every time and always showed up again.

Spain messily threw his arm around the other, a sloppy grin plastered to his face, his own glass of rum in his hands. "H-ha! I knew I could beat you at a drinking competition!"

"You ne-never said we were having a competition!"

"_Uh-huh_!"

"_Nuh-uh_!"

"_Uh-huh_!"

"_Nu_- Oh, bloody hell, I'm not doing this. I could beat you at a dr-drinkin' competition any bloody day!" England exclaimed while slamming his hands on the counter and sitting up straight. He seemed to have forgotten, however, that he still had his drink in his hand and the golden liquid sloshed over the sides and onto the bar. He frowned at it for a moment before turning to the lightly giggling Spaniard who was swaying in his seat, his arm now back at his side.

"T-tell ya what, eyebrows. If you ever... Ever ever ever beat me in a drinking competition... I'll... I'll... I'll, um... I'll show up to a world conference in a dress!"

"A dress?"

"Sí! A pirate costume!"

"Bu-but you said..."

"With a peg leg and ruffles and a skirt! Sí!" Spain said confidently, the words tumbling clumsily out of his mouth.

England's pale face crumpled in thought, his eyebrows furrowed. Spain wanted to poke them to see if they were alive but before he could lift his hand England interrupted him.

"I'll take you on! And if I loose... I'll... Um... I will do the same! With an eyepatch and, um, a corset and yeah!" He nodded, his blonde hair falling in his glazed over green eyes. Now, he knew he couldn't loose the bet. He didn't want to show up at the meeting in a pirate dress costume. No, he would make sure the damn Spaniard would loose! And he had the perfect way!

As Spain started to blabber about how his dress would have lace and ribbons and pretty flowers on it ("With a hat that has a feather and a hook hand and maybe I'll draw on a scar or two, Sí, that would look good..."), the Brit fumbled around in his pocket for his to-go book of spells he kept around in case he met a lingering pervert frog in the streets.

He clumsily started to riffle through it as Spain wondered out loud if the looser would have to wear lace panties to go with the outfit ("I mean, boxers can't be comfy under a dress, a-and I could get a pair to match my eyes..."). When he got to the right spell, or what he thought was the right spell (after all, everything was doubled right now for some reason), he grinned triumphantly and started to slur the spell under his breath.

"And I mean, I suppose my hair is long enough to put a bow it, but it wasn't as long as it used to be and what if the only bow I find doesn't match my dress and eyepatch? I mean-" Spain was cut off as he felt a peculiar feeling in his chest. It almost felt like a strong tingling that spread from his chest to his toes to the tips of his fingers. For a moment the tan nation glowed, but then he was back to normal. He swayed in his seat.

"H-ha! Haha! Now you'll never win!" England said in what he hoped to be an evil and scary way, pointing his finger in Antonio's face. "I used my magic and now you'll never be able to hold any alcohol but a-"

The bartender decided that, as always, when the little English man decided to talk about magic it was time for him to leave. As the two nations stumbled out of the bar to their respective hotel rooms, neither knew that for once, England's magic had worked.

It was just the wrong spell.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello! Well, I'm back. And I know, these chapters are rather short. They'll get longer, I promise!**

**Sorry for any spelling errors. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia **

England really wished he knew what happened last night. Why? Because he woke up half naked in his hotel bathtub with America passed out in the corner of his hotel room.

After freaking out and yelling at the large blonde (although the yelling didn't help his headache very much so halfway through he started whisper shouting instead), the Brit started to get ready for the meeting.

Ugh. He was never going to drink again.

_Really_.

He bloody meant it this time.

He arrived early to the meeting hall, like always, his hair more disheveled than normal and his eyes bloodshot. He would've preferred to stay in his hotel room and sleep in, but the meeting was being held in London, and it would be rude to show up to his own meeting late. And he was a proper English gentleman, after all.

The green eyed man sighed as the doors to the room opened and a familiar blonde poked his head in. "Hiya, Iggy!" Oh, _bloody hell._

"Why are you here so early, you git?" England snapped as he forcefully organized his papers. Oh great. Germany was supposed to speak today. Once he handed to meeting over to him no one would get their turn, that bloody control freak would take everything over.

"Well..." The blue eyed nation drew out the word as he bounded over to England. At the same time the door opened again and a sleepy looking Greece followed by Japan. "I was worried about ya!" He ignored England's wince at the use of 'improper' English. "After all, you came into my room and started to call me a unicorn and when I tried to get you to calm down you grabbed my sheets and made a cape and threw of your shirt and went to your hotel room, so obviously I had to follow ya, and then I tried to get you in the bed but all you did was throw the sheet at me and crawl in the bathtub so yeah! Gave me quite a scare." So that's what happened last night... Or at least for part of it. The bar part of it was still a little blurry.

Trying to will his pale cheeks not to turn red in embarrassment, England sharply stated, "I'm fine, you git." And America just laughed and hugged him from behind (the recently arrived Hungary started taking pictures as an irritated Austria went to his seat and Germany made a mental note to make a new rule about P.D.A. at meetings).

After twenty minute of trying to wrestle a clingy American off of him, Arthur finally managed to get the meeting started. He couldn't help but smirk lightly when he saw that he wasn't the only hungover one. It looked like Denmark had a long night.

Shaking off his amusement and shooting a quick, acid green glare to a snickering China who was observing the Englishman's hair and eyes, England took out his notes, straightened his back, opened his mouth and-

Bang.

All heads of the nations, save for a passed out Greece and a few others who weren't paying attention since they weren't completely awake, turned to the loudly open doors in confusion. At first, it looked like no one was there. But then someone let out a squeal.

"Like, look! It's a baby!" Poland jumped up from his seat near the door and ran over to the small figure that had just toddled in. For a moment no one could see anything except for Poland's back, but then he turned around and a collective gasp ran throughout the nations.

Perched in Poland's arms, squirming around with a pout on his face, was Spain. Only... It wasn't quite the Spain that everyone knew. No, the once tall, fully grown nation seemed to have turned into a toddler, who was currently wearing a long sleeved shirt that looked more like a dress on him. He looked no more than five, maybe three at the youngest. His emerald green eyes swept the room as he stopped squirming in Poland's grip. He tilted his head to the side, looking confused. A small amount of drool trickled out of the right side of his mouth.

And everyone else mirrored this expression. Well, except for the drool. Of course they were confused. Why the hell would Spain just suddenly turn into a toddler? It just didn't happen on its own. Was everybody going to start to turn into toddlers?

After a few moments of staring and a few nations internally panicking at the thought of being turned into a toddler in the middle of the night, someone spoke. "Oh, bloody hell!"

Immediately all eyes turned to the Brit, who was eyeing the toddler Spain warily. "That's what happened at the bar!" Oh yes, he vaguely remembered now. Something about a drinking competition... And dresses? And then he was going to put a spell on that damn Spaniard... But not this one!

"Like, you mean that you did this?" Poland asked as he started to rock the child back and forth in his arms. "Like, hush!" he whined to the small Spain when he whimpered and tried to free himself. It was rather obvious that Poland hadn't really handled a small child for a long while. Or ever.

"Well, yes. I-I mean, sort of. I didn't mean to!" England snapped defensively as everyone watched toddler Spain finally get free of the Polish man's grip and start to wander around. Some nations cooed as the tanned toddler toddled near them, others cringed in disgust (Belarus was not a baby kind of person), and still others simply snickered at the formerly intimidating, though light headed, personification being reduced to such a vulnerable position. The Netherlands was taking pictures with a triumphant grin on his face.

After he had walked halfway around the meeting room, the small toddler finally stopped in front of a chair that had a person sitting in it, who had a rather familiar curl sticking out of his head. Lifting a small, chubby hand, Spain stood on his tiptoes, and poked South Italy's side.

Now, you're probably wondering why Romano hadn't said anything about this whole '_my former boss has been turned into a little kid I mean what the fuck_' situation. The answer was simple: he was following Greece's example and dozing off in his seat. It wasn't like he _planned_ on sleeping at the meeting (though he probably would've ended up doing it anyways, I mean England was hosting it), but Feli had dumped a crap ton of paperwork on him last night that he 'forgot' about until then. So Romano had set to work, overusing hhis cappuccino machine and nearly smashing his laptop against the wall several times. But by five o'clock he had those papers done. And by five thirty, Feli was getting up for their flight. You can see now why Romano was tired as fuck, therefore not paying attention to what was going on, therefore not saying anything about this whole '_my former boss has been turned into a little kid I mean what the fuck_' situation.

So, as you can imagine, it came as quite a shock when he looked down to see who the hell was poking him, and on his lower side of all fucking places, and saw none other than a baby-fied version of Spain.

"What the fuck?" Romano cried as the small Spain plopped down on the ground and beamed at him. Italy turned slightly at the sound of his brother yelling. The northern part of Italy hadn't been sleeping, but had been playing with a new cat he found. It was so cute! How could he not play with it? Besides, it reminded him of Germany and he love anything to do with Germany!

Anyways, he, was shocked too as he looked down at the small Spain, who was still gazing up at the freaking out Romano for unknown reasons.

"Ve, how cute!" Italy chirped, and when he picked him up England started to explain, a nervous smile on his face.

"A-ahem, well, you see, it is acts a rather funny story..." Spain looked up at Italy's face and pouted.

"No!" he cried in a high pitched voice. "Yo quiero tomate!" And Italy simply stated at him confused because there was no way this cute little baby was speaking a language that he understood. Spain began to squirm, trying to get over to Romano.

"S-so we were at this bar, oh, I don't remember why, exactly, haha, just trying to catch up, and, you see, there was a little drinking competition that we made..."

Italy paused before grinning. "Aw, Lovi!" he cooed. "He wants to sit with you! Don't you feel special?" Ignoring the dagger glares from a currently jealous Belgium, Italy cheerfully picked Spain up and plopped him into the still shocked Romano's lap.

"And, well, I was simply going to place a tiny little spell on him, you know, just to make him not be able to hold much of his alcohol, and... I must of done this instead...?"

Romano seemed to come out of his shock as Spain reached his chubby hands into his Italian flag print bag. "H-hey! What the fuck!" He said as the now smaller nation pulled out what he had walked all the way over for: A tomato.

Cheering happily at his achievement but apparently too lazy to waddle back over to where he came from, Spain plopped down and relaxed in the stunned looking Romano's lap and started to messily devour his newly aquired tomato.

"Well, someone has to take care of him! We can't have him running around like a toddler, that's dangerous!" Switzerland suddenly called.

"Well, I'm not doing it, aru!"

"Nein. I will not take care of a child."

"N'th'r w'll I."

Belgium eagerly opened her mouth to volunteer, green eyes sparkling at the opportunity to become closer with her current crush before she was cut off by North Italy. "Ve~ Fratello! Why don't you take care of him!"

Romano looked up from the messy child perched on his lap, blinking several times. "W-what? Why the hell...?"

"Hm? Mr. Tomato take care of meeee?" A high pitched voice asked, and Romano looked down to see Spain smiling adorably up at him.

"I..."

"Well, it's settled then!" England suddenly said eagerly. He wanted the child out of the conference room now. It was a blaring reminder of his mistake last night, and he would rather not have it here. "Romano, why don't you go and take care of it? A conference room is no place for a child. Italy can cover your papers, won't you?" Before the ditzy Mediterranean nation could respond, England had strode over to the messy child and still shocked Italian nation, ushering them out of their chairs.

"W-wait! Eyebrow bastard!" England flinched at the use of the nickname and forced a polite smile that looked rather painful on his face. Spain was clinging to Romano's neck, getting tomato juice all over his suit. "How long does this shit last?" He asked a little desperately. "What will he remember? Does he even know he's a nation?"

England couldn't help but feel bad for Romano. Sure, the lad was a rude and loud, but he was dumping a child on him on a very short notice. A child that used to be his own caretaker, none the less. "Oh... It won't last long." England opened the conference room door. "One day, two, three tops. And as far as I know, he has no memories," he said. Then, an idea occurred to him.

It wasn't that he disliked Romano, but...

Last meeting he had refused to eat the scones England had made himself, even throwing his out the window to compare it to a rock. And England had been meaning to get a little revenge. "Oh, and he won't remember a thing that happens while he is like this."

"He... Won't?" Romano looked down at Spain, who beamed up at him.

"No, of course not." Ha. Let's see what things Romano would tell his boss while thinking he wouldn't remember. Payback was so sweet, like a perfect cup of tea. "Now, if you excuse me, I have a meeting to run." And with one last polite shove, Romano and Spain were pushed out in the hallway.

Romano looked down at Spain, who poked his cheek. "Why the hell was I the one chosen to be stuck with you?"

Back in the meeting room, Belgium slammed her head down on the table and silently screamed.


End file.
